I didn’t always make good choices but signing up for a typing class in high school was one of my better ones. I wasn’t the best typist, but I did okay. 60 wpm was my top speed by the time the course was over. I’m probably faster now. The machines we were taught on were all manual, so you had to strike down pretty hard.
My grandfather bought me a second-hand manual typewriter, and I used it so much that by the time I got into college, the “S” key broke off. I had to use the “5” key instead.
My writing looked like this:
5ally walked 5even mile5 that night, 5inging mo5t of the way.
Most of my readers came from understanding students in creative writing classes and a very understanding literature magazine editor. Eventually, the 5 key broke off. I guess my ring finger didn’t know its own strength.
I sometimes miss the typewriter. The noise it made, the smell of the ribbon and paper, the growing stack of typewritten pages next to it showing the fruits of my labors. However, editing a typewritten manuscript was a real bear. I don’t miss that at all.
If I find a place to put it, I might add a typwriter to my collection of rotary telephones, old radios, and film cameras and give my grandkids another thing to scratch their heads about when they visit.
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